


Arrhythmia

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Extra Treat, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hopeful Ending, Loss of Humanity, Loss of Identity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Jon's heart begins to beat anew.





	Arrhythmia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



The Archivist opened his eyes before his heart began to beat anew. The strangest thing was, it didn’t hurt. He simply lay there, and watched the old analog clock as the second hand ticked up towards half seven, marking the progress, remembering the rhythm. 

Then the minute hand slid to six, and his heart thudded back to life, marking time of its own. He sat up, took one shuddering breath, then another. The ticking of the clock was deafening as he struggled to remember how to breath, to set the beating of his heart. His eyes darted around the room, noting the faint orange light through the window, and a handful of cards perched on the bedside table. He reached for one with watercolor flowers blooming across the front, and let it fall open on his lap. 

_Please wake up, Jon._

_-Martin_

A plea to Jon. To him. From Martin, a man conjured in his mind with a sad smile and proffered cup of tea. He traced the words with his fingers, trying to discern their meaning. They spoke of quiet desperation, in sharp contrast to the bland simplicity of the card. And beyond that—

“Oh god, you’re—you’re awake.”

Jon looked up from the card. The woman, the nurse, wasn’t someone he recognized, but then, why would she be? The last thing he remembered was the explosion, Tim’s hand on the trigger, and the Dancer’s face, filled with horror no ordinary eyes could see. 

“What happened?” The words wormed their way into her mind, and Jon’s heart steadied, his breath calmed, blood rushing to his brain.

“I don’t know the details, and I don’t want to. They brought you here, and you had to be dead, but you weren’t! It wasn’t possible, it still isn’t. And I’m not even supposed to be working this shift, but they’re isolating us, I’d heard it before from Mary, anyone who sees this freaky stuff gets blackballed, and that’s it. But I’m not the only one, Mary was supposed to be here today, but I haven’t seen her since that man came to visit. Said he was your boss, but there was something wrong with him, everything quieter when he was around, and I just felt so lonely. I loved my job, but I’m not sure how much longer I can do this, not even with having two kids to feed.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth, stalling the flow of information. Likely she knew little else of relevance to the question, but there had been one thing that seemed strange.

“My boss, what was his name?”

“His name was Peter Lukas. You don’t know? Oh dear, was he not your boss? I knew there was something off about him, more than the others.” 

“And the others?” Likely his assistants and Georgie, but it was best to confirm, after all. Any more unlikely well-wishers were worth looking into.

“They all were younger, around your age. Not that I’d have known you were that young if I hadn’t had your chart, you should really take better care of yourself. But really, it’s nice to have friends visit you like that. The young man came by particularly often, he seemed very fond. I always wondered if he might be your boyfriend, but I didn’t dare ask. Not my business anyway.” 

Of course Martin would come by, just as he’d hovered over Jon after the worms. A quiet, constant presence. He turned the card over in his hands, staring down at the words, hoping this time they’d reveal more, though he wasn’t certain quite what he was looking for. 

“Was there anything else? Any other visitors, or anything left for me?”

“Oh, yes! I just remembered. A strange package arrived, not one week past. Return address was The Magnus Institute, with instructions to give it to you when you wake.”

“Please do.” 

She blinked in confusion, clearly still not understanding why she’d said so much, and having almost certainly violated at very least hospital procedure in her effusive rambling, if not any actual laws. But after a moment, she seemed to gather herself, and strode from the room. 

Nothing to do now but wait, and check if there was anything he’d missed. There were other cards on the table, from Basira, Georgie, even Melanie, her named signed in grudging black slashes. One stood apart from the rest, a lone ship bobbing on the sea, with a note inside indicating it was from Peter Lukas, and that Elias also sent his love. Jon snorted. He rather doubted Elias had phrased it that way. As he got to his feet, he noticed a small pile of clothing folded neatly on the broad window ledge. He made his way towards it, wincing as the movement dragged on the shrapnel cuts that littered his body. Apparently however magical his recovery, it didn’t extend to more minor injuries. But then when had any of this ever been convenient?

When the nurse returned, he’d finished pulling on the clothes, and had sat back on the bed. She thrust the box towards him, then scurried away. Clever enough to have realized that him asking questions was the problem. Or perhaps she simply wanted to escape. He could hardly blame her, though he did hope she might someday come make a statement. After all, Mary’s disappearance was very likely not mundane, and he could use ever scrap of information he could get on Peter Lukas. 

But that was a matter for later. For now, the box. 

Inside there were tapes stacked in neat rows, with bright white labels affixed to the front. He set them out on the bed, reading each. Statements, ones done since the Unknowing. And at the bottom of the box, a tape recorder, and inside it a tape. This tape, he knew, was blank, and he pulled it out and set it aside, plucking another from the stack. It was different from the rest, labeled only as a “Disciplinary Incident” in a hand he recognized as Elias’s. He set placed it inside, and hit play.

He wasn’t surprised when Martin’s voice, high and panicked, filtered out from the speakers. Or that soon Elias followed, first exasperated, then angry, when Martin refused to yield. The plan proceeded perfectly, Martin pushing forward despite his obvious fear, Elias irritated at the interruption, not realizing what else was going on, too focused on Jon, too oblivious to Martin’s own cunning. It was fascinating, how much stronger Martin was than he seemed. Jon had underestimated him. They all had. Even as Martin tried to control his sobbing, Jon could still feel the steel underlying his words to Melanie, barring no argument. They had to go, to finish what they’d started.

And Jon needed to talk to Martin. 

As he packed up the tapes, he noticed that more than half had Martin’s frustratingly bad penmanship adorning the labels. It was only logical, he supposed. Melanie was likely furious as ever, and Basira had Daisy to mourn. With Jon absent, Martin took the brunt of the recordings. Another thing to remember, to make sure Martin understood his genuine appreciation. 

He got to his feet, and swayed, a wave of nausea rolling over him. His eyes caught on a figure in the doorway. The nurse, too afraid to approach, but unable to completely abandon her duty. He collapsed back onto the bed, and beckoned her inside.

“What did you say your name was?” He pulled Martin’s tape out of the recorder, and replaced it with the blank one, hitting record.

“It’s—it’s Nicola. Nicola Stevens.” 

He almost laughed. It was a common enough name, and yet what were the odds? But that didn’t matter now. The Stranger was no longer his primary concern.

“And your colleague, Mary? What was her full name?”

“It was, her name was Mary Rossetti. Her granddad was from Italy, you see.” She sat down in the room’s only chair, hands wrapped tight around her knees.

“Very well.” He took a deep breath, then began anew. “Statement of Nicola Stevens, regarding the disappearance of her colleague Mary Rossetti on October 10th, 2017. Statement taken live from subject on October 21st, 2017.”

He’d never asked the date.

“Please start from the beginning. When did you last see her?”

For the first time since he’d awoken, Jon felt whole. 

***

The Institute seemed quieter than when he’d last been there. But that was only logical. Peter Lukas, the Lonely, intruding on this stronghold of another power. A compromise, but one not without cost. But that was something to deal with later. 

Martin was in his office, almost as if he’d known Jon would return. And perhaps he had. While the assistants didn’t seem to have access to quite the same range of…abilities, the statements were evidence enough that they could access some smaller measure of that power. 

That, or Martin was always waiting. But it was best not to dwell overmuch on the latter possibility. For now, he needed to focus. 

When he crossed the threshold, Martin’s eyes widened and he immediately stood from where he’d been sitting behind Jon’s desk.

“I—I didn’t, I mean, you’re awake? You’re okay?” 

He crossed the room in hesitant steps, holding out a hand. Jon placed the tape recorder in it, and passed him to set the box on the desk before sitting behind it. 

“As well as can be expected,” he said with a sigh. He’d have scars on scars, but then it wasn’t like he’d been much to look at in the first place. “Do you have a minute?” 

Martin wavered, staring down at the tape recorder in his hand, then slowly crossed the room to take a seat on the other side of the desk, before setting the tape recorder on it. 

“You’re sure everything’s okay? I mean, you were basically dead, Jon. And I know, well, I know things had already changed, but that’s, I mean, it’s not really normal, is it?” Martin rested his arm on the desk, his palm inches from Jon. “Even less normal than usual,” he amended. 

A faint sense of unease crept into his mind at Martin’s words, but no, it was only Martin worrying again. Jon set his own hand on the desk, fingers twitching with the odd urge to touch Martin, to take Martin’s hand in his. But that would be wildly inappropriate, and it wasn’t the time. Jon needed to know more.

The tape recorder clicked on.

“What happened, since I left for the Unknowing?”

Martin sucked in a sharp breath, matched by Jon’s own. He leaned forward as Martin began to speak, hanging on his every word.

“Quite a lot, I mean, it’s been months. The plan worked, I was right, harming the statements does effect Elias, and he never saw it coming from me. I think that helped, quite a lot of people underestimate me. Not that they’re wrong to, that was why I had to do it. To show you, to show everyone that I could. And it was worth it, I swear it was.” The rush of words halted as Martin struggled to catch his breath. “It’s—it’s not fine. I’m not fine. I knew she was difficult, cold. But I didn’t know why, and now I can’t stop thinking of it, every time I look in the mirror. And I try to pretend that it’s better, that Elias didn’t get to you, that I already knew everything. But he did. Because it’s the same thing, isn’t it? You don’t care. That’s why I like you. I barely even know you, not really, but every time I look at you, I just want to reach out, to make you care. But it’s a stupid fantasy, and I know you’re getting worse, and I don’t know what—”

No, no, it was all wrong.

“Stop, Martin! Please stop.” He shut the tape recorder off as the unease from before welled up in chest, wave after sick wave. What was he doing? He’d just compelled Martin, forced him to reveal all of this, all the things Jon had no right to know. And some part of him was still happy to know it, to see how Elias had toyed with him, like an ant under a magnifying glass in the scorching noonday sun. 

Martin stared back at him, betrayal clear in his eyes as he pulled his hand back from the desk, crossed his arms over his chest. But he still didn’t try to leave, didn’t try to run. 

He should.

“You’re right.” Quieter than the confidence of compelling. “I am a monster.” 

“That’s not, Jon, that’s not what I said, I only meant—” 

Now he reached out again, and the tape played again in Jon’s mind. He’d only noted Martin’s strength, his sacrifice. Power and potential, like Elias, looking for useful pawns. 

“I’m—I’m so sorry, Martin. I need to, I need—” Jon stood, stumbled back. The tape recorder was turned itself back on. He left it. Futile it fight it anyway, not when—

A faint rap on the door frame, and Jon spun around.

“Oh, Jon, how lovely to finally meet you,” Peter Lukas said from the doorway, a smile on his lips. “If you’re free, would you mind coming to my office? Just some administration we need to take care of, if you’re looking to get right back on the horse.” His eyes lingered on Martin, then flicked back to Jon. “I’m sure Martin understands.”

Jon sent a helpless glance back at Martin, certain there was something else he needed to say. But as always, the words didn’t come, his tongue tangled into knots even as he wanted to reach out, to tell Martin anything to make him look less resigned, to soften even a little the bitter tinge to his smile as he waved Jon away.

“It’s fine, Jon. I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Brilliant. Let’s get this over with.” Peter Lukas wrapped a hand around Jon’s elbow, and began to usher him down the hall, chatting cheerfully about the administration of the Institute, the mundane details of what had happened in Jon’s absence. 

The farther away they got from Martin, the emptier Jon felt, even as he struggled to understand why. Was it just the Lonely, the fear radiating from touch, from proximity? Or his own guilt, at what he’d done not just to Martin, but to the poor nurse, careless and callous as he drove himself towards some insatiable need to know, and damn whoever was caught in the crossfire. The nurse would be another dream, another person to watch, to torture, even as he desperately tried to turn away. 

“Please Jon, take a seat,” Peter said with an expansive gesture.

Jon did, motions wooden as Peter continued to babble on. As much as Jon wanted to blame Beholding alone, that wasn’t entirely it. It was a choice, in the end, to watch. To always wait, never interfering, never touching. 

“—you know, I found the funniest thing. Would you believe Elias has some old bones stashed away here? Barnabas Bennett. Quite ancient, I do wonder why he keeps them.

As a reminder, but he thought Peter knew that. Jon swallowed back another swell of sickness. Simple caring was never enough. 

“You mentioned leave. I think I’d like to take a few days.”

Peter smiled, and Jon felt colder than ever.

“Oh, I’d be happy to grant your request. Sometimes solitude really is best medicine.”

***

Whether running to Georgie was a stubborn defiance of Peter Lukas, or simply falling back into a familiar pattern, Jon didn’t know. What did it matter anyway? He was here now. And yet as he hovered on her doorstep, finger resting on the buzzer, he still considered leaving. 

He jammed his finger into the buzzer. Distance was the last thing he needed now. 

“Who is it?” Soft and tinny, but distinctly Georgie.

“It’s me. Jon.” Hands stuffed in his pockets, and still unsure of his welcome. She’d left a card, but he’d barely talked to her once he’d moved out, leaving her behind yet again. 

“What? When did you—never mind. Get up here.”

Jon took the stairs one at a time, hand pressed against the wall to stop it from shaking. How did Georgie do it? What was it like, to live without the fear? But maybe it was better, something to focus on other than the yawning distance. When he reached the landing, her door was already open, and he gratefully slipped inside. 

She sat him on the couch, handed him a cup of tea, and asked, “What happened? Not the Unknowing, or the Institute. Melanie told me all that. What happened to you?”

“So much, and I don’t, I don’t know what happened to me. What’s still happening to me.” His knuckles went white around the mug. “No, that’s not true. I do know.”

Georgie was silent, bringing her own mug to her lips. Watching. Waiting. Eerie, to have that turned on him. But it was only fitting. 

“I listened to a tape Elias made. Not, not recently. Before. It was about Jonah Magnus, and a friend of his he’d left to die.” Jon sipped the tea, too hot, too sweet, then forced himself to continue. “He just watched, and he didn’t do a bloody thing.” He set the tea down, hands shaking too hard to hold it anymore.

“And? Look, with everything I’ve heard from you and Melanie about the Magnus Institute, I don’t imagine the founder was exactly a good guy.”

There it was, the pity he remembered from the dreams. And she still didn’t understand.

“You know, I can recall Elias’s words perfectly? What he said, when he finished reading. ‘You may believe yourself to have friends, to have confidantes, but in the end, all they are, is something for you to watch, to know, and ultimately to discard.’ Jonah Magnus did care. But he let his friend die anyway. And I—I don’t want to become that, Georgie. I don’t want to become—” A monster. He’d said it to Martin, the confession falling from his lips. He couldn’t say it to Georgie, not when some naive, foolish part of him still believed Georgie didn’t see it, didn’t know. That she might still see him as he was. Before.

Maybe that was the real reason he’d gone to her, in the end. The one person who’d known Jon, before the Archivist. 

“Then don’t,” she said, sitting back in her chair. Matter of fact, like it was obvious, with a hint of exasperation that Jon was over-complicating things yet again. “Stay here tonight, and tomorrow—” She sucked in a breath, then sighed. “I can’t say I think you going back there is a good idea, but I get it now. I hope you get it too. It’s not just you. Talk to your assistants. Remember that you’re not alone. They need you too.”

“What, they need me to manipulate them, just like Elias did?” He laughed, the sound startled from him, high and almost delirious. 

“Jon.” She held out her hand, like Martin had. 

This time, Jon took it. 

“You’re right. I know, I know you’re right. I thought I was doing better, you know. I even made a tape about it.” Trusting people. It had never been easy. It was only getting harder. 

“Well, you’re not doing worse,” she said, continuing to grip his hand tight. “Just don’t forget why you’re going back.”

He’d thought he needed to know, needed to see. But he remembered Martin’s hand, resting on the desk, and his fingers twitched. 

“What about you?” He gave her hand a squeeze. A thank you, as much as he could manage. 

“I’ll be okay, Jon. After all, I’m pretty much the only person you know who hasn’t entered an insane contract with an eldritch power.”

“That’s, well.” He found himself smiling, despite everything. “You always were good at avoiding bad deals.”

“And you weren’t. Neither was Melanie. Don’t know what it says about me, that I like you two anyway.” She stood, her hand slipping from his, leaving a lingering warmth behind. A reminder far better than old bones. 

“And Jon?” she said. “Just don’t forget, you’re not alone.”

“Right. I—I’ll try.” 

Not a promise, barely even a reply. But Georgie nodded all the same. It had to be enough, for now. 

***

Jon had always been a skilled practitioner of repression. Like an adult telling a child there were no monsters under the bed, he’d told himself that as long as he’d closed his eyes, pulled the covers high, then they’d never find him. But he’d always known the monsters were real, whatever comforting lies he’d murmured in the dark. 

Harder was accepting he’d become one of them. 

But you couldn’t fight what you refused to see, so the next morning Jon walked down the steps to the Archives with a cup of tea clutched in his hands, and didn’t flinch as his feet guided him to where Martin sat, tucked away in an old storage room he’d claimed as something of an office. As Martin looked up, Jon set the cup of tea in front of him. A cheap Twinings English Breakfast, with far too much sugar and a splash of milk. Revolting, but he knew it was what Martin liked. He’d asked Basira before he’d come down, and she’d rattled if off with ease, even as Jon wondered why she knew, and he didn’t. 

But that would change. It had to.

As Jon sat across from him, Martin managed to muster up a smile, but even Jon could tell his heart wasn’t in it. His eyes flicked to the tea, then back to Jon, before tugging it close and taking a sip.

“I—” Everything in Jon screamed for him to leave, that this wasn’t necessary, and he couldn’t tell anymore if it was Beholding, or if it was just him. This urge to murmur platitudes at best, or to simply turn the conversation to work, to their goal. It was what Gertrude would’ve done. What Elias would’ve done. 

He shoved it all aside, placing a shaking hand on the desk.

“I’m sorry, Martin.” 

To Jon’s surprise, Martin didn’t look pleased, hands tightening around the mug. “Don’t apologize. I knew what I was doing, and I’d do it again.”

“No, no, that’s not—that is, I don’t mean to devalue, I know what it cost—” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m rubbish at this, I’m sorry. Not for that. For—for compelling you. I was, well.” Out of control, too caught up in all the urges that had led him to Beholding in the first place. “It’s not fair to ask, but I need, I need…” His fingers flexed, and he couldn’t find the words. 

“It was a good plan,” Jon said, taking the coward’s way out. “Far better than I could’ve come up with.”

“And it worked,” Martin said, a small amount of pride creeping into his voice. “Well, mostly.”

“You can hardly be blamed for Elias’s contingencies. We had no way of knowing what would happen once we began, and it worked as well as could be hoped.”

“I suppose so.” He took a sip of tea. Set the cup down. “You know, I still wonder, should I have let Melanie try it? One last chance. I’m not even sure I believe it’d kill us all, I just…I just couldn’t do it. I thought I could change, but really, I haven’t changed at all.” 

His eyes dropped to his tea, not drinking, simply staring into the depths, like it held all the answers, if only he looked hard enough. Or maybe he just didn’t want to meet Jon’s eyes.

“No, Martin. You did the right thing. And it cost you, I know it did.” What Elias had forced him to see. What Elias hadn’t forced him to see. How easy would it be, to make Martin hate Jon? To show him how little of Jon was left? He remembered Martin’s words. _You don’t care._ “And Martin, I—I do care. About all of you.” No, that wasn’t right the right thing to say. “About you.”

The silence lingered between them, leaden with things not said. But what could he say? Georgie had said he needed them, that they needed him. How arrogant, to think that it had been all for him alone. To assume Martin would be willing to give, with nothing in return. 

“I barely even know you,” Martin said, small, sad smile on his lips. “I just kept thinking about that, when I was picking a card. I stared at the display, tried to think of something perfect, and I couldn’t.”

“That’s not true.” The denial sprung easily to his lips, and yet even as he said, Jon knew it was a lie. 

“Yes, it is! What do you do outside of work? What’s your favorite book? You know, when Daisy interviewed me, she said she’d heard we were close? But I didn’t even know who Georgie was.”

“Martin, really, it’s nothing.” How could he fix this? There must be something. “I didn’t talk to anyone about Georgie, our relationship…it didn’t end well.”

“Melanie knew.” 

Jealousy colored his voice. How long had that been there? How long had Jon failed to notice?

“Georgie was the one who told her.” No, that wasn’t enough. Argument, not connection. It didn’t matter why Melanie knew. It mattered that Martin didn’t, and that he wanted to.

“I collect fountain pens. My grandmother was fond of them, and I inherited her collection when she passed away. I kept it up myself. And, I write, well, more wrote, reviews, I guess? On a blog. In retrospect, I was perhaps harsher than was entirely merited.” He hadn’t thought of it in what seemed like years. Might have actually been years, back during the simpler times when he was only a researcher, when he still thought the world was largely safe and boring. 

“Yeah, that I found it. I Googled you, you know, new boss and all.” He tugged at his sleeve. “Other reasons, too.” His eyes flicked up to meet Jon’s, before darting towards to the door. “I did enjoy the bit you did about _Ancient Aliens_.” He sighed, and this time, he didn’t look away. “You know, we never really got the chance to talk, did we?”

A promise made in haste, one Jon had largely failed to keep. He could blame it on the Unknowing, blame it on the work. But it wasn’t really true, was it? So he just said, “The world hasn’t ended yet.” 

“I suppose that’s true.” He stared down at Jon’s hand, still splayed on the wood like an offering. But he didn’t reach out. Instead he gulped down the rest of the tea, and shoved back from his desk, heading towards the door. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Martin—” Jon scrambled to his feet, heart galloping, certain that Martin would leave him, certain he’d be right to, but desperately wanting him to stay, even when he still didn’t know what he wanted himself.

“You heard what I said, before. And you know,” he said, voice rising. “I’m glad. That you made me say it.”

“Martin, that’s—”

“Just listen, for once.” Martin spun back around to face him, looking as scared as Jon felt. “Just stop asking questions.”

Jon fell silent It was the least he could do.

“It’s messed up, okay? I know that. And it’s not even your problem. It’s mine. I’m the one who put you up on this pedestal, I’m the one who refused to really see you. And it’s not your fault, it’s not fair. But maybe I don’t know how to do anything but watch while everything falls apart.” His eyes were bright, and he scrubbed his sleeve over them furiously, all while Jon stayed frozen in place. “Damn it.”

They were only a few feet apart, but the distance seemed like miles. _Don’t forget._ The memory of warmth, of Georgie’s hand in his. He took a step towards Martin.

“I think we share that problem.” 

Martin inhaled in a deep, shuddering rush. Blinked rapidly, then said, “I’m trying to be better.”

Jon took another step.

“Maybe—maybe we can be better together.” 

“What do you mean?” Not plaintive, but challenging. They both stood on a precipice and Martin had said his part, all but ready to leap.

Jon was silent, as the seconds ticked by. Terrified of what he’d done, what he still might do, what this might cost him. And for a moment, he wondered. What Martin would do, if he let the matter drop. How he’d react, loneliness twisting in on itself, all while Jon watched and listened and waited, and never spoke at all.

Jon held out his hand.

A cascade of expressions crossed Martin’s face, nearly too fast for Jon to follow. Uncertainty. Anger. Longing. Hope. And yes, fear. Always fear. Then Martin took a step, reached for Jon’s hand. Hesitated.

“Oh, screw it,” Martin said.

Jon let out a huff of surprise as his back it the wall, and then Martin was kissing him. The angle was awkward, their noses bumping, Martin’s teeth catching on his lip. Not what he’d been expecting, and yet exactly what he’d needed, Martin’s hand in his hair, cradling the back of his head, fingers digging into his skull. Mouth, lips, tongue hot against his, messy and inelegant and nothing like the cold distance of dreams. As Martin began to pull away, Jon reached up, wrapping his fingers around Martin’s bicep, holding him. Still not sure what any of this meant to either of them, but knowing that this moment was all him. All Jon.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. He reached up blindly, because somewhere along the line his eyes fallen shut, and he couldn’t bear to open them, not yet. His hand found Martin’s head, pulling him down, their foreheads bumping together.

“For what?” He was so close Jon felt his breath on his cheek.

“I’m not even sure anymore. And that terrifies me.” Quieter now, than his shouted admission to Martin, not much more than a year ago, while they’d faced what had at the time seemed almost certain death at the hands of Jane Prentiss. He’d told Martin he was scared, that he was losing part of himself, and yet in the end, he’d shut him out.

“It scares me too.” He stiffened against Jon, then sighed. “You scare me.”

Wrong. He’d been wrong again, and too late, always too late. Jon tried to slip away, but Martin only pressed closer, holding him there, even as Jon didn’t dare look at his face.

“But that doesn’t mean—I don’t know. That we can’t try? This is all completely mad, isn’t it? Not, not this.” His fingers tightened in Jon’s hair. “Everything else. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to run away. I’m just tired of pretending.” 

Jon leaned in, pressed his head against Martin’s chest. “I can’t promise you anything. I’m not sure how long I can fight this. How long I can be…me. I’m changing, Martin. And at the end, I don’t know what I’ll be.”

Martin pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We can try.”

We. It sounded so simple, all that rot about social bonds and friendship and love conquering all. He didn’t think this darkness would be so easily conquered. And yet.

Jon opened his eyes as his heart began to beat anew. And it wasn’t at all strange that it hurt so much. But even with all the pain, he continued to stand there, pressed against Martin’s chest, listening to his heart. 

Remembering the rhythm.


End file.
